


Five Ways Moran Got GOT

by PhantomLass



Series: The Worlds First Consulting Girl Detective [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bondlock, Catching Moran, F/M, Female Sherlock Holmes, Gen, Shooting, girl!sherlock, guest appearances by anyone but Sherlock and Bond, some violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 15:44:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhantomLass/pseuds/PhantomLass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of these chapters come from a bunch of stories I posted on my tumblr account (http://griffinquillsandoctopusink.tumblr.com/)</p>
<p>These one-shots are sent in my Fem-Sherlock universe! In this universe Sherlock was partnered with James Bond to hunt down the rest of Moriarty's gang. They have done that and now they just have Moran to get. And they will. In one of 5 ways, By accident or as a plan ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Agent Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> My Fem-Sherlock universe was born from me reading Sherlock Holmes, Mary Russell and Flavia de Luce too close to each other.

They were looking at a ghost there was no other explanation for it.

Greg Lestrade and Sally Donovan stood behind the glass which from inside the interview room would look like a mirror.

"She's alive," Greg whispered hoarsely, his eyes fixed firmly on the person inside the room, his mind trying to work its way around the fact that he was looking at a very alive Sherlock Holmes.

"You were found with a gun, standing over a body, a freshly dead body,"

Silence.

"Was there a fight, a scuffle, maybe the gun misfired?"

Silence.

"Or maybe you were in that warehouse with every intention of being the only one to leave it alive"

The questioning had not been successful and Sherlock had just sat there, looking blankly ahead with that slightly hazy expression she sometime got when she went into her 'mind palace'.

Greg had left the room before he lost his temper and they were now waiting for her contact to arrive.

"Yip," Sally whispered, just as gob-smacked.

"She didn't say anything?"

"Not a word after she told me I had gotten my wish,"

Sally didn't elaborate. Greg didn't need her too.

Gun fire had been reported coming from a shut-down factory and they had arrived to find Sherlock Holmes standing over a dead body with a gun in her hand.

"It looks like you got your wish, Sally,"

"Just give me the gun, Sherlock,"

They had received a call from someone miles higher up the chain of command that they were to keep the 'suspect in custody' until someone with a shinier badge than theirs came to collect her.

"Was anything found on her?" he asked softly, just wanting to fill the silence, something to take his mind off what he was seeing and what Sherlock had done.

There was a knock on the observation room door and a junior officer popped his head in.

"Someone to see you sir,"

There was someone alright.

Greg arrived back at his office to find two men waiting for him, their steel filled gazes locking onto him as though they were itching for him to do something to put them out.

Greg was not easily intimidated, He found killers for a living and if he was he wouldn't have lasted very long at his job. But there was something about these me that made him want to leave the room and tell the higher-ups that hell would freeze over before he let them go anywhere with Sherlock. One of them stepped forward, holding out a hand for him to shake.

His smile said that he was friendly. His eyes yelled something dangerously different.

Greg took the offered had out of habit and griped it firmly.

"Felix Leiter, Mr Lestrade," he introduced himself.

"Detective Inspector," Greg corrected, for some reason wanting these men to know just what he was. His job was his accomplishment and he had earned the title.

Felix froze for a moment, his smile never wavering.

"My apologies, friend. Detective Inspector Lestrade, we have been sent to retrieve Sherlock Holmes,"

His heart pounded as he looked at the identification card that was now being held out to him. He took it and glancing over it he handed it back.

"What has Miss Holmes done that is of interest to the CIA and…" he looked at the other man, blonde, broad shouldered and glaring at him like he wished Greg would drop dead.

He glanced at the strangers clothes.

Both of the men were dressed smartly but there was something about the blonde that from years of experience just said 'British Government' to Greg.

The blonde stepped forward and shook his hand a bit harder than needed.

"James Bond," there was a pause as though he was thinking if adding something was a good idea or not, "MI6,"

Oh Sherlock, what have you done?

Greg's stomach dropped. It looked like Sherlock had been busy during her afterlife.

"We would appreciate being taken to Miss Holmes," Bind reached into the inner pocket of his suit and pulled out a sealed letter and handed it to Greg.

He ripped open the envelope -that had his name written on it – and unfolded the letter.

Before he even bothered reading the perfect black typing her skipped to the very bottom.

Mycroft Holmes was swirled in black ink at the bottom of the letter.

Probably used a fountain pen.

He slid his eyes back to the top and read. A coldness filled him, blooming from the pit of his stomach to encompass the rest of his body, There was no way out of this and thanks to Sherlock not speaking he didn't even know if he could help her or even delay them in some way.

He led the way to the interview suites with the two agents at his heals.

Sally looked at him in confusion from where she stood in the doorway of the observation room. He opened the door to the interview room and his yes immediately travelled to Sherlock who was sitting at the table, her cuffed hands sitting in front of her. Her eyes were closed and she was breathing steadily, in that controlled manner he was used to seeing on the few occasions she went to her 'mind palace'.

She was pale in the glaring lights of the interview room.

He cleared his throat and stepped away from the door to allow the men to enter.

He stood in the hallway and watched as her eyes slowly opened and she turned her head.

Her eyes seemed to light up in a way he had never seen before. They had come close to that kind of a glow when she was with John but never had they been so bright.

"Agent Bond," she spoke steadily, nodding her head, "Agent Leiter,"

In all honesty Greg didn't know what he had expected.

For them to barge in, grab her by the arm and drag her from the building?

For them to stay in the room and play good-cop-bad-cop?

"Agent Holmes,"

He had not expected that.

A smile, almost feral like, danced across her mouth.

Leiter turned to him, requesting the keys for the cuffs.

Sally brought them when he gestured her foreword.

"You're late," Sherlock told Bond as Leiter freed her of the cuffs.

Greg struggled to keep his mouth from dropping open. She had been gone for three years and all that time she had been a government agent.

Leiter dropped the keys into his palm.

"You will find that the appropriate paperwork will be arriving shortly," he was told.

Greg nodded.

"In the meantime, could we have some privacy while we wait?"

"Of course," Greg was feeling shell-shocked while at the same time thinking this was just bloody like Sherlock. She could have quietly come back from the dead it had to be tied up with government secrets and ordered hits didn't it.

He had left them alone and returned to his office.

Sitting on his desk was the file of the dead man.

He flicked it open.

Sebastian Moran


	2. Casino Bait - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Way 2 (part 1) of how Sherlock and James get Moran

James had his arm wrapped around the young woman's slim waist, anchoring her body to his own in an attempt to do the same with her mind.

He squeezed her gently while manoeuvring her through the bustling crowd.

The casino was noisy - ear ringingly so - with constant chatter and music coming from the many slot machines that sat in perfect rows along the ground floor.

"Just focus on me," he whispered into her ear.

He knew what their surroundings were doing to her. So much data from so many people was loading into her brain and overloading it like one of Q's computers with too many wires attached at once.

This had happened a few times since he had known her - usually when they had been forced to take public transportation somewhere (not always when on the run either) – and he would admit to panicking the first time it occurred - not knowing why the cucumber cool girl had suddenly broken out in a sweat and was shacking like a leaf.

Now, whenever they were forced to take a tube or a bus he would just bundle her against him and let her close her eyes and press her face into his chest to block everyone out as much as she could. It didn't fix the problem but he was thankful that it helped.

That was not an option right now though. Right now she needed to act her part. Thankfully her genius brain was not required - she had already done the work that she needed to in order to lead them here.

They were surrounded by agents. He could see 005 and 009 at two of the machines, 003 was at a roulette wheel and he didn't have to glance up at the balcony to know that there was more than one sniper ready. Over the past year or so Q branch had been having a disgusting amount of fun in designing what they classed as 'covert' weapons and more than a few of the branches brain children where currently in the building and waiting to take out someone. There were two snipers (at least) who were in possession of the rifle/walking-stick/cane combo. 005 was the proud possessor of a fire throwing lighter - shame really that the security hadn't caught the extra little switch hidden under the fluid valve. 003 was wearing a tie pin that with one little twist was turned into a very serviceable knife and Eve (who was doing such a good job of being inconspicuous that he had yet to spot her) was sporting a fetching pair of stilettos that given the chance would actually live up to their name.

And then there was the girl on his arm.

Usually he wouldn't worry about Sherlock and a weapon - the young woman had a knack for creating weapons out of the least likeliest of objects (the most memorable being a plastic bottle and her violin) and also for pilfering any unattended gun. But he had not been willing to take any chances tonight.

Tonight almost three years of work was going to come together – hopefully in a coffin shaped, gift wrapped box with 'Sebastian Moran' on the plaque – and Sherlock was the bait and he's be damned if he lost her because of putting too much trust in the others and leaving her defenceless.

She had a gun strapped to her thigh – she had complained (of course) and he had ignored her (naturally) – and a viciously sharp ornament holding her dark lock up in a loose bun. There was also the special bulletproof vest that was moulded to the upper half of her dress.

No chances were being taken either by him or 'The British Government'. There had been more than a few close calls over the last few years but tonight was not going to be one of them.

He drowned out the noises. The clattering of machine gears, the squealing of excited women and the cheering of winners. No mistakes tonight.

"Close quarters or distance shooting?" he asked casually, bending in close to her ear and smiling flirtatiously as he brought them to a stop at 003's roulette wheel.

He could feel the shift in the fabric of the dress as Sherlock took some deep, steadying breaths. He glanced down as she turned further into his body, pressing herself in tight until she was plastered to one side of his body, her arms wrapping about his neck. She was smiling up at him with the wickedest grin he had ever seen on her lips. Her eyes were the only thing that gave her away as she looked over his shoulder. He fought back the shiver of pleasure that wanted to dance through his body as he felt her fingers trails up and down the back of his neck.

It was frightening sometimes just how good she was at this.

"He favours keeping a distance between himself and the victim. That is his pattern. But he has proven to be unpredictable," she spoke softly, her grin softening into something more playful and he couldn't resist lowering his head and pressing a kiss to the edge of her painted lips and speaking into her skin.

"Sentiment?" he queried into her soft skin.

"Indeed," she mumbled in reply, her hands stroking his neck and hair as he pressed a kiss to her cheek and began to move to her jaw and then trail down her neck.

The fingers in his hair changed from caressing to preventing and he tensed as her fingers threaded through his hair and fisted.

"Ouch," he hissed as she pulled and he followed her hand, trying to release the pressure on his scalp.

"I would prefer it if we were not thrown out or told to 'get a room' before the end of the night, Mr Bond," she told him firmly.


	3. Casino Bait - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Way 2 (part 2) of how Sherlock and James got Moran.

Like most stakeouts the end of the hunt for Sebastian Moran (murderer and right-hand man to one of the most dangerous criminal minds of the century) ended very quickly and almost anticlimactic (according to Sherlock - the fact that she found having a gun aimed at her head boring was a little worrying to James).

James knew that these things were a waiting game, you just had to wait and see who would be the first person to do something stupid and hope that person wasn't you. But then James liked to think that they had achieved their 'stupid' quota for life by being in the same building as Moran.

It took three hours for the stupid move to be made.

"Down!"

The word shot through his head from his earpiece and he didn't question it.

He had been at the bar with his arm draped possessively around Sherlock's slim waist - he might as well have tried wrestling a shark for all of the progress he had made with trying to get her to eat regularly - when the warning came and without thought he shifted, forcing her to duck and they landed on the floor just as a shot rang out and screaming quickly took over from the second of silence that had fell.

He was holding Sherlock to his chest, her bare shoulders glittering with fragments of broken glass, some of it shining on the dark material of his suit jacket.

She scrambled away from him and he immediately pulled out his weapon more than ready to plant a bullet between the eyes of anyone who came at her.

She glanced behind her and he nodded.

She scrambled the last few feet to the hatch and ducked behind the bar.

Now that she was safe - for the time being - he focused.

How the hell at he managed to go unseen for long enough to get an aim?

"Visual?" he snarled, his eyes darting about the area as he dashed to the cover offered by a replica Grecian pillar.

"Do we have identification?" he tried again.

"It's Moran,"

"Can you get a shot?"

"Negative,"

A shot rang out once again and this time a shower of plaster was sent over him, dusting his already glass dotted jacket with white powder.

The screaming of patrons had died down to a distant jumble and echo now.

"Shoot as soon as you get a clear shot," he ordered, "But not to kill," he added, the powers that be wanted the man alive.

A chorus of affirmatives filled his ear.

A few minutes later and there was no more panicked screaming at all and he had no doubt that Moneypenny had assisted in the evacuation.

"You're surrounded Moran!" he shouted.

Another shot punctured the pillar. He was glad the casino didn't go in for the plastic replicas or he'd have another bullet wound or two to add to the collection.

"Well, that was rude," announced a calm voice.

Sherlock?

He looked back towards the bar to see Sherlock standing straight from behind the bar, the gun he had insisted on her keeping with her at al times held in both hands as she took aim. He saw the reflection of Moran in the mirror that ran along the bar. He was aiming high, straight for Sherlock's head.

But that is where he made his stupid mistake.

He paused for too long.

Sherlock shot.

There was a clatter, a cry and a thump in quick order from Moran.

"Moran's down," a voice in his ear told him and he carefully left the cover of the pillar, never lowering his gun as he trained it on the panting body of Moran. The man own weapon was now lying several feet from him, a puddle of crimson blood blooming from under his shoulder.

"That bitch," Moran groaned, his pale face twisted with fury rather than pain.

"Yeah, she gets that a lot," James told him as the other agents gathered around the shot man, each of them with guns up.

"Secure him," he nodded at 005 and turned back to the bar nearly walking straight into Sherlock.

He took a step back and looked down at her. She was pale and her face was dotted with tiny drops of blood from the shower of glass.

She was holding the gun pinched in between her thumb and forefinger. frowning at the weapon as though it had just interrupted her in the middle of a deduction.

He took it from her and checked the safety.

"Awful noisy things," she complained, her nose crinkled in disgust.

James just stared at the young woman.

He had been sure that he had seen everything. But she continued to surprise him by her own lack of surprise.

She looked over his shoulder and he turned to follow her gaze. The agents were pulling a bleeding but struggling Moran to his feet.

He stopped his struggling to stare at Sherlock before launching himself at her. James placed his body between the struggling Moran and Sherlock but the agents had a firm hold of him.

The man was so enraged his words came out as nothing but snarls and the agents dragged him off.

"Do stop fussing," Sherlock moaned as the paramedic dealt with an extra nasty cut along the back of her neck.

James exchanged a frustrated look with the poor man who had spent most of the time he had been patching her up dodging her hands as she tried to bat him away.

"Thanks mate,"

As James watched the paramedics retreating back James realised that he had never seen people move as quickly as they did when leaving Sherlock's presence.

He put a heavy hand on her slight shoulder to stop her sliding from the raised ramp of the ambulance and pressed close to her, trapping her legs.

"What were you thinking?"

Sherlock looked up at him with that expression that she got when she thought he was being unreasonable.

"I was thinking that I was in the perfect position to shoot him," she replied matter of factly.

"If he hadn't hesitated-"

"But he did,"

"You didn't know that," he shouted, his heart pounding in his throat.

James fought to calm himself, breathing deeply through his nose in an attempt not to draw any more attention to them.

He closed his eyes.

In, and out.

In, and out.

"James," Sherlock sounded so small, he hated hearing her sound this way, she was always so certain of herself, so sure of everything. But she needed to realise what he actions did.

He opened his eyes to meet hers.

"I'm sorry that I worried you," her pale hand came up from her lap to cup his cheek in a rare show of physical affection.

"But as soon as he made such a public arrival I knew his emotions would be the end of him" she explained steadily.

"Sentiment," he breathed.

She beamed at him as though he had just achieved some special trick.

"Exactly," she nodded her head, "He is an expert sniper James, he could have had a bullet through my head before any warning could have been given. He failed to remain calm and distant. My actions were a gamble but they paid off wouldn't you say?"

He reached for her hand and drew it from his cheek and to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the palm. He sighed into her skin.

"I think you gave me another grey hair," he mumbled, squeezing her hand before stepping away and helping her hop down from the ramp.

She looked up at him, eyes shining and smile wide.

"Only one?"


	4. Dust Bunnies and Windows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has returned to London and gets an uninvited visitor.

Sherlock slouched in her old chair, in her old flat, in the city she had once been happy to call her own.

Nothing had changed in the flat – except for the glaringly obvious absence of all things John – as she had made sure Mycroft continued to pay Mrs Hudson the rent in return for not letting the flat to anyone else or touching her equipment. Mrs Hudson was no doubt living under the mistaken assumption that Mycroft had suddenly grown a heart and was keeping the flat untouched due to some kind of familial affection. She would hate to destroy the old landlady's trust in human nature where it came to her brother but it would be unavoidable.

The door clicked.

The curtain rises once more.

She steepled her fingers and propped her elbows on her knees.

"Please come in, your letting in a draft," she called.

There was a distinct pause in the stillness and then she heard a step and the creak of the door opening.

She would have to WD-40 that door at the earliest opportunity.

On second thought it was a good warning system.

The door clicked shut.

Step.

Step.

Step.

Step.

A pair of feet appeared in her line of vision and interrupted her study of the rug.

She looked up.

He was a very normal looking man, this Moran. There was nothing about him to announce his abilities or the fact that he was the right hand man of a maniac until said maniac blew his own brains out.

He had dark hair, a weather-beaten complexion, washed out eye.

The man looked tired but normal.

"Miss Sherlock Holmes," he even sounded normal, "I've been waiting to meet you for a long time,"

She stood. Slowly. It wouldn't do to have him make use of that gun he had tucked into the back of his jeans. She wondered if he had the safety on. It could lead to an unfortunate accident if he didn't.

"As have I,"

She walked over to the mantelpiece and he watched her with his hawk like eyes, not missing a move. She just needed to get him used to the idea of her moving around. After all, it wasn't her job to do the shooting.

"You just couldn't resist returning to London could you?"

She ignored him for a minute as she ran a finger along the dusty mantelpiece.

She may have said she wanted nothing disturbed but would it have killed Mycroft to flick a duster around the place. She supposed she should be grateful that someone had seen fit to remove the food from the fridge and empty the bin.

"And you just couldn't resist one more kill," she shot back, now strolling over to the book case and repeating her actions.

Her fingers were covered in thick, grey dust. The joys of a flat in London. All the muck in the air.

Moran let out a blood chilling laugh, not quite as insane sounding as Moriarty but not far off.

"I had to get your attention somehow and I knew I would eventually get it, I just had to get the right victim," he mocked.

He had covered men, women, young and old in his three victims.

"Oh, you had it a long time ago. You are to be congratulated. Three murders all unsolved by the Yard,"

She began to move for the window but stopped on the way to examine the back of the chair and made a detour round the back of the couch.

She tutted as she skimmed her hand along the back of the furniture and chunks of clogged dust fell to the floor. It was more than obvious that Mrs Hudson had done as Mycroft had asked and left 22lB alone. If the landlady had come in at all she wouldn't have been able to resist getting out the polish and duster.

Moran laughed again.

"You know the Yard? They couldn't solve anything with you painting a picture,"

She quirked an eyebrow. Was he complimenting her?

Even if he was it was a bit unfair of him. She had followed Lestrade's cases once Mycroft had pulled the strings to get the man his job back and all in all he had been doing a relatively good job. The percentage of solved cases had dropped that was true but still, his average was alright - all things considered.

Moran, obviously having had enough talking for the evening, reached behind him and the next thing Sherlock knew she was looking down the barrel of his gun and the safety was most definitely off.

How predictable.

She kept moving lazily across the room and he watched her, so sure that she had walked straight into his trap.

"How boring," she mumbled, hiding a yawn, keeping her breathing steady and calm.

"Boring?" the man seemed annoyed by her lack of hysterics.

"Why are you doing all of this, Mr Moran?" she asked him, continuing to the window, "Why all of the effort for an old boss?"

"You killed him,"

She shook her head.

"No, I did not,"

"You are as much of a killer as I am," the man continued.

He was starting to lose his look of normality and beginning to look more…serial killer-esque. His eyes were beginning to get that crazed expression and she could see the sweat gathering above his lip.

Just a few more feet and she would be – there. She stopped her meandering in front of the window.

She knew how the light fell, how having the main light off but the lamp on affected the shadows.

And – there you go. Moran shifted until he was only a meter or so away from her and directly in front.

"James Moriarty blew out his own brains on the roof of St Bartholomew's Hospital," she informed him calmly.

"You're lying,"

"I'm really not,"

Silence fell between them and nothing could be heard but the sound of their breathing.

Moran shrugged, a sad grin twisting his face.

"It doesn't matter to me if you pulled the trigger or not. You were the cause. And a bullet will be going through your brain before I leave,"

She shook her head.

"That is where you are very mistaken,"

He frowned.

"Oh yes, because you see, I haven't been wondering all alone and collecting up all of Jim's threads,"

Moran tensed, preparing to fire.

"Now!"

She ducked.

Sherlock heard the window behind her shatter and watched Moran pull the trigger. The force of a bullet connecting with his arm threw of his aim and sent the bullet harmlessly into the wall.

The gun flew from his hand and he fell to the floor.

Wasting no time she kicked the gun away and leaned over the bleeding man as footsteps pounded on the stairs and officers flowed through the door, led by her fair haired hunting partner of the last three years.

He didn't look normal any more at all. His face twisted in anger and pain, glaring at her.

She clenched her hands tightly to stop the shaking.

She felt the strong hand of the blonde land on her shoulder and help her straighten up.

It was over?

"It's done Sherlock," James Bond's voice assured her as he led her out of the way of the paramedics and officers.

She leaned against him, trusting the agent to support her weight.

Her hands were tingling.

That was a little not good.

"It's over?" she asked, feeling like she was far away.

She could feel James' arm tighten around her and felt him press a warm kiss to her forehead, hugging her close.

Where were her arm?

Oh.

She was holding him just as tightly as he was her.

"Yes Sherlock. It's finished. You can come home,"

Home.

"That's good,"


	5. The Orchestra Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q and Eve make an appearance (very briefly) to help catch Moran.

"Could my brother have possibly concocted a more obnoxious plan than this," Sherlock griped as she shifted to a more comfortable and yet elegant angle on the chair.

Anyone watching would thing that the young woman was speaking to herself, perhaps complaining about the cut of her bust-line or the tightness of the material around her ribs. But she knew that there were at least three people not too far away who could hear every word she said.

"His ideas are equal to his ego I would say," a feminine voice drifted through her ear followed by a masculine chuckle.

"Indeed, this place is a security nightmare Sherlock,"

"Come now, Q, don't you like playing with your shiny new toys," mocked a deep voice.

Q didn't bother to reply to that.

She breathed deeply, clutching her violin and bow tightly before relaxing her fingers and straightening her spine, the general hubbub of the various musicians tuning there instruments and settling down masked her voice.

"James-"

"Everything will be fine Sherlock," the deep voice belonging to one James Bond informed her.

She wasn't so sure. It had been three years since the death of Moriarty on the roof of St Bart's and her own 'death'. She had made full use of her afterlife, tracking down anyone who could be linked in any way to the mastermind. His web had been extensive and she had caught more than one spider trying to take over during the years.

But most importantly she had trapped the three gun-men who had come so close to killing Lestrade, John and Mrs Hudson in a web of her own. They had struggled like the desperate flies they had become but with no success.

And now I was the elusive Sebastian Moran's turn.

He had proved almost as elusive as his boss had done. She knew he had been responsible for at least two deaths in London and suspected him of one more – that didn't count any hits he had completed during his time in Moriarty's employment.

Moran had made destroying her his soul focus. As if dodging the bullets of those she was hunting hadn't been enough she had to watch out for Moran's constant attempts on her life. She had a scar on her shoulder to show just how close he had come on one occasion.

Tonight would see the end of watching her back – at least for Moran's shadow.

The idea of her performing as a member of an orchestra while in Germany had been Mycroft's plan – only her brother could come up with such a public way to draw out the sniper.

But she couldn't fault his logic.

Security was placed at all entrances and tickets checked and double checked against identifications on the way in.

And yet, not even two minutes away from the performance beginning there had been no sign of their tiger. Moran was no fool and Sherlock doubted the success of the plan.

But here she sat surrounded by the rest of the orchestra and waiting for the lights to go up.

If there was one thing about the plan she trusted it Moan's skill to hit her and not any of the other musicians who didn't realise how much danger they were in by just showing up for their work tonight.

"Lights in five...four…three…two…"

The light went up and all eyes went to the conductor as the audience applauded.

She would either be dead or alive by the end of the performance.

She was most decidedly alive.

And so was Moran, wherever he was. Alive and free.

No attempts had been made on her life, or the lives of anyone else.

"Well, that didn't work," Q's voice filled her ear as she packed away her violin, carefully closing the case with a snap of the catches.

"Indeed," she mumbled dryly, slipping into her jacket, "Perhaps a pub was missed,"

Posters had plastered the city. Her name – or rather her alias – had been discreetly placed in the list of performers and Mycroft had ensured news of the performance had flooded the web for weeks before. Moran could not have missed it. She may as well have sat with a bull's-eye on her forehead during her two and a half hours on the stage or have scheduled her death in her diary.

She was dressed in a dark evening gown, just as all of the female orchestra members had been. Highly impractical for the chilly evenings of mid-November not to mention the chilliness of the theatre's backstage area.

"Keep sharp!" James announced to all and she could just imagine backs straightening and eyes darting more fervently.

She rolled her eyes.

"I will see you at home," she mumbled to the air.

"No you won't,"

She stiffened.

"I'll be at the stage door in two minutes,"

Sherlock relaxed.

Sherlock entered the code into the main door of the flat to enter the stairwell and then after climbing the two flights to the flat she shared with James she repeated the process.

James swept passed her just as he always did and proceeded to do a sweep of the flat, going from room to room, his gun ready to fire at anyone who shouldn't be there.

"You played beautifully," the tall, broad shouldered MI6 agent told her once he had completed his search of the flat.

She looked up at him and cocked her head.

"How could you tell?" she asked.

"I could hear it," he smiled and tapped her ear where the com was still hidden.

That made sense.

She smiled faintly in thanks and used the agent to balance as she pried the heals she had been forced into by Eve from her poor feet.

She groaned in relief as her nylon covered feet hit the cool flooring.

"How can women wear these things every day?" she grumbled using her foot to swipe the offending shoes from the centre of the floor and under one of the two arm chairs that faced the television.

She eyed them up longingly, desperate to sit down but she couldn't. Not yet.

She straightened and wound her arms around James' shoulders, running her hands over the fine material of his suit jacket. If there was one thing she had learned about James Bond during her time with him it was that the man new how to dress.

"I told you it was too flashy," she mumbled threading her fingers together behind his head while his own came to rest on her waist, pulling her against him.

"Does it drive you mad being right all the time?" he smiled down at her, blue eyes dancing.

She threw her head back, sneaking a glance to the right and out of the window. The curtains were still open.

She knew it was pitch black outside but it was difficult to tell with the lights on.

"Absolutely-" she looked back at him, "Not,"

His expression changed slowly, the crinkles around his eyes that had been caused by laughter morphing into the more severe creases of a frown before he pressed his face to her neck hiding his expression and lips.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked her softly, his breath brushing against her skin, causing goose bumps to rise along her eyes.

"Of course," she smiled – you never know who was watching after all – and tangled a hand into his hair and tugged.

He got the point and lifted his head until his lips were flush with her ear.

She giggled and struggled for freedom as he blew into her ear. The 'struggle' quite naturally moved them until James' back was to the window and she could see right out of it.

Well…

He stopped blowing in her ear and caught her around her thighs as she braced herself against his shoulder and hopped. Her legs went around his waist and her view of the window was perfect as he walked them backwards until he pressed her against the wall, coincidently caching the light switch with his hand.

The room plunged into darkness.

Now she could make out the almost pitch black conditions outside. She could only make out the slightly darker outlines of the ruined building adjacent.

"Why are we doing this again?" James spoke into her neck.

"Because we have just cheated death, that's why," she grumbled, tightening her grip in his hair when his mouth edged a bit too close to her cleavage.

Her eyes remained fixed on the darkness outside as James lavished her neck with tiny kisses.

And then she saw it.

That red pin-prick of light.

"Now!"

As quick as a flash she was rolling to the floor at the same time she heard the window smash.

James crouched above her shouting into the com, something about heads rolling and M being the leas of their worries if they let the shooter get away.

She could hear the commotion through her own com and pushed James away enough for her to slide out form under him and scoot to the wall. She sat up and rested her back against it, making sure to be out of sight of the window. Dicing with death twice in a night was plenty for one evening.

"Really," she huffed, "they had better not lose him, I all but served him up with an apple in his mouth,"

James glared at her and she rolled her eyes.

She had though.

Q – for all of his complaints on the security issues –had more cameras on the theatre than the crown jewels. Moran had been there – of course he had. He had come and he had gone, following Sherlock's own little trail of crumbs right to the empty block of flats facing her own.

It was sickeningly simple in the end. He wouldn't be able to resist appearing clever, trying to beat her at her own game. She had stopped all communications after the performance to make it seem like she felt safe and left the rest up to him.

"We have him,"

Sherlock was glad she was sitting down or she would have dropped as her body turned to jelly.

She glanced up at James who was staring down at her.

"We got him?" she asked, almost shocked by the suddenness of it all.

Of course she knew how this worked. It always happened so quickly but for some reason she had expected the plan to have some sort of hitch – like a Moran getting away sized hitch.

James smiled down at her, shrugging out of his jacket he slid down the wall to sit beside her.

He took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to the back.

"We got him,"


	6. Best Laid Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone is working to a plan. Shame Sherlock isn't in on it. 
> 
> (Violence against Sherlock in this one guys)

Sherlock bit hard into her cheek as the kidnapper did his level best to branch out into torturer – why limit yourself after all when the opportunity presented itself.

The rough looking individual was putting his all into breaking her right leg, pressing down hard with his heel. She already had at least two broken ribs from where his boot toe had connected viciously with her side.

"Tell me!" he snarled, saliva spraying from his mouth.

Lovely.

"I don't know what you are talking about," she gasped before returning her focus to not crying out.

The most irritating thing about the situation was that she had no idea what the moron was going on about and she had actually for once in her life been in the wrong place at the wrong time. She felt insulted by the whole affair. There she had been, minding her own business down the darkest, creepiest alley – to avoid anyone! – that smelled of urine and rotten garbage (she shuddered to thing what was on her shoes) and the next thing she knew someone had struck her across the head and everything went black.

And now here she was with Moron standing on her leg and spitting all over her. All she could think was that the man wasn't going to live to regret taking her because as soon as James caught up he would be MI6-ing a bullet through the man's head.

Speak of the devil.

Sherlock only flinched a little as a hole appeared in Moron's head and he fell forward landing on top of her and sending all of the air out of her lungs.

She had seen a lot since she had left London nearly three years ago and death was no longer quite the elusive stranger that it had once been. She could count on one hand - and not even use all of her digits – the number of deaths she had witnessed before her 'suicide'. She had ran out of fingers and toes over the years. She was glad of one thing though. She had never grown numb to it. Anderson would be disappointed.

She struggled to shimmy out from beneath Moron's dead body and failed until a dark figure loomed above her, grabbed him about the shoulders and dragged him from her.

"Ja-"

That wasn't James.

Her heart leapt in her chest at the sight.

He was a deceptively regular looking man – attractive, sure, but nothing too special.

He grinned at her.

"Miss Holmes,"

"Mr Moran," she forced her voice to remain calm even as the man calmly raised his hand to show her the weapon that had no doubt killed Moron. All of a sudden Moron didn't seem too bad in the grand scale of things.

She evaluated her position.

It didn't look good. Her hands were tied behind her back – in fact she was sure Moron had dislocated her left shoulder in doing so – at least two broken ribs and her right leg was thumping painfully with each heartbeat. If she could roll over she could stumble to her feet but she did not feel inclined to put her back to Moran. She would much rather see the bullet coming.

She couldn't even be sure where she was.

The floor was concrete; she could make out the texture with her hands and the chill that was biting through her clothes.

The room was dark, except for the light coming from a tall lamp by a wall.

She got the impression that the room was big, with high ceilings and high windows – which meant one less escape route.

A factory or warehouse perhaps?

Wherever it was, the floor was liberally dusted with droppings of the rodent variety. Anything with fours legs had no doubt dashed for cover as soon as Moron came bashing through the door and started yelling.

Where are you James?

He aimed the barrel at her.

She gulped and breathed in deeply.

I'll be damned before I show any fear.

"No begging Miss Holmes,"

She shook her head and attempted a shrug.

It hurt.

"I don't believe in wasting energy. Begging won't change your mind,"

I am not giving you the satisfaction.

"Three years of running and this is how the great protégée comes to an end," he mocked, crouching down to hold the gun to her head.

She shivered at the feel of the cold metal against her skin.

Protégé? No one trained me thank you!

"Pff…protégé?" she gasped, "Lucky for you there is only one of me, Mr Moran," she spat.

He was going to kill her, that had been established – and unless James got a move on and made use of that high level tracking chip buried in her shoulder he was going to succeed – but that didn't mean he was going to get away with belittling her intelligence.

Of course, that didn't take into account Mycroft…

A humourless smile danced across the snipers lips. She should have known he would want to make it personal and look her in the eye as he pulled the trigger.

He leaned in close, but not close enough for her to succeed in head butting him without him reflexively pulling the trigger.

Dead either way Sherlock.

"Did you hones-"

Bang!

A shot echoed around the room – big and very empty from the sound – before Moran, a look of almost comical shock in his eyes fell back.

The second of silence that followed the gin shot ended with the same suddenness that it had began and Moran's pain filled whines filled the darkness.

She could feel him catching at her foot and she respected he was doing some rolling along with the whining.

"In all fairness, you are still alive Mr Moran," she pointed out to him as another man – one she knew wasn't going to pull a gun on her (well, I suppose there is always that small chance) – loomed over her for a moment before he crouched beside her. Strong hands gripped her shoulders and gently lifted her from the ground. An arm wound around her shoulder, supporting her against his chest.

A few choice phrases were spat at from the shot, bleeding and sadly very alive sniper.

"Any chance he'll bleed to death before the cavalry arrives?" she asked dryly, ignoring the shot man and trying to keep her breathing steady as James manoeuvred her so she was leaning against him while he untied her hands.

Her rescuers lips were hovering by her ear and the deep chuckle that escaped them sent a shiver through her.

"Anyone would think you held something against this gentleman,"

She rolled her eyes.

"Justified?"

She felt him nod against the side of her face.

"Justified," he whispered into her ear, pressing a kiss to her forehead and pulling away.

Good. She just wanted to check.

Blood rushed into her hands and she forced herself to move them.

"Unfortunately, no bleed out," James informed her.

"Shame," she grumbled, glaring over at the still complaining man.

Would he ever shut up.

"The powers that be –" those being M and Mycroft – "Want him alive,"

Sherlock could hear sirens in the distance and sighed.

How unfortunate.

"That's the bugle if I'm not mistaken," James chuckled.

She relaxed against him and closed her eyes.

It seemed unreal, three years of her life had been spent tracking down Moriarty's fellow spiders and then they catch the last one purely by accident.

John would appreciate the irony.

She stayed in James' arms as agents swarmed the building, followed by the ambulance crew.

Moran's screams began in earnest once again.

"Oh, do shut up," she mumbled under he breath and James' arms tightened on her a little as the sniper was shifted onto a board and rolled from the building screaming some choice phrases at her.

Nothing new.

'You will rue the day you ever saw me' the usual bad guy stuff really.

"Won't they ever think of something more varied to say," she sighed, feeling very tired all of a sudden.

James laughed and pressed another kiss to her hair.

She liked it when he did that.

"Maybe you should do an article on your blog when you get home, 'Parting Comments for the Criminal Classes'"

"Mmm," she agreed, nodding her head sleepily.

Soon paramedics arrived to see to her and she was bundled off into an ambulance James never leaving her side.

The door closed and the ambulance pulled away as she began to drift.

"Don't think you are getting out of this one Sherlock. When you wake up we are having a talk about wondering off and NOT doing it,"

He sounded tired.

"Yes dear," she whispered, a smile flickering across her lips.

He last thing she felt before she fell into the blackness was James squeezing her hand.

She really liked it when he did that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that is the last chapter in this little collection and I really hope you have enjoyed it. 
> 
> I would be thrilled if you could leave me some feedback to let me know what you think. 
> 
> Thanks a lot! 
> 
> x


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